I led him across the deck until we reached the companion, when I released my grip on his elbow.
"Tell me, you old scoundrel," I said, "did anyone except you and that confounded sailor see what was going on?"
He chuckled again. "What can you expect," he enquired, "if you will choose the public ocean on which to perform these feats of chivalry?"
"There wasn't any chivalry about it," I said. "The blighters tried to blackmail us into giving them a couple of quid. In fact, they had the infernal cheek to threaten to put us ashore on the sands if we didn't pay up."
Ross smiled provokingly. "I should have thought that would have just suited you," he observed. "You would make a very nice Paul and Virginia."
"It wouldn't have suited Miss de Roda," I returned. "As it is, she's worried to death with the idea that someone will go and tell her uncle about that scrap in the boat. She thinks it will give him another heart attack, and, seeing the sort of doctor we've got on board, I must say I rather sympathize with her."
He took my shaft quite imperturbably.
"I thought you would get the poor girl into trouble sooner or later," he remarked. "Still, thanks to me, it's not as bad as it might have been. I was the only one on board with a pair of glasses, and, when the others asked me what was happening, I told them the gentleman you sloshed on the jaw had managed to catch a crab. It was some crab, by the way, wasn't it? I hate lying, but I knew that your natural modesty would shrink from anything like a public ovation."
I stopped outside my cabin. "Ross," I said feelingly, "you may be a bad doctor, but you're a damned good pal. You shall have a double whisky for this."
I led the way in and closed the door behind us.
"Besides," he continued, settling himself down on my bunk, "there's no risk of Uncle Philip dropping dead. He has bucked up a lot the last day or two, thanks to my extraordinary skill."
I mixed a generous peg, and brought it across to where he was sitting.
"I can't quite make out the Señor de Roda," I said. "He looks as if he had something on his mind—something he was always brooding over."
Ross took a long and appreciative drink. "He has had a rotten time somehow," he replied; "that's quite certain. I should put him down as a naturally healthy man who had been broken up by bad feeding and rough living." He paused. "But I expect you're pretty well up in the family history now?" he added drily.
"That's the weak point of your profession," I retorted. "When you don't know you generally guess wrong. As a matter of fact I only met Miss de Roda in the tram coming down from Oporto. There wasn't much time for private enquiry work, even if I had felt like it."
"You didn't do so badly," returned Ross, wagging his head. "There is nothing women like so much as a little display of primitive brutality. It's just your luck to have had the chance. That sort of thing never comes my way." He finished his drink and put down the tumbler. "Aren't you going to open your wire?" he asked. "There it is on the table."
"By Jove!" I exclaimed. "I'd forgotten all about it."
I crossed the cabin, and, slitting the flap of the little blue envelope, pulled out the flimsy sheet of paper inside. It was headed "London, May 26th," and underneath was the following message:
"Regret inform you your uncle, Richard Jannaway, died 17th inst. As next of kin you inherit. Please call 117 Bedford Row as soon as you reach England.—Wilmot and Drayton, solicitors."
For several seconds I stood there contemplating this document, in such complete surprise that at last Ross got up a little anxiously from where he was sitting.
"Nothing wrong, I hope?" he asked.
Without a word I handed him the slip, and he in turn read through its contents.
"My sainted aunt!" he exclaimed. "Have you come into a fortune or what?"
"I haven't the faintest notion," I said.
There was a short pause. Then once more he glanced through the message which he was still holding in his hand. "Who was Mr. Richard Jannaway?" he demanded. "And what's all the mystery about?"
I picked up the whisky and helped myself to a drink.
"He was my mother's brother," I said. "I know hardly anything about him besides that. I was under the impression that he was dead years ago."
"Haven't you ever seen him?"
I shook my head. "He left England when I was a baby. I believe he was a pretty bad egg one way and another—the sort of black sheep that every respectable family rolls out occasionally. I have got some vague idea that he went to South America, but so far as I know there has never been any news of him from that day to this."
Ross reseated himself on the bunk and stared at me with vast enjoyment.
"You've struck the main reef, my son," he observed. "It's the sort of thing one reads about in a shilling shocker. He's probably made a huge fortune cornering castor oil or something, and when you get back you'll find yourself a prancing millionaire."
"It's much more likely he's left me a bundle of debts," I said sceptically.
"Don't you believe it," persisted Ross. "I've got a wonderful instinct for lucky people, and the very first time I saw you I smelt money. I don't suppose you'll ever do another honest day's work in your life—at least, not after you reach London."
As he spoke the jangling sound of the shore bell echoed loudly through the ship.
"Anyhow, I must go up and make a final effort at it now," I said. "I am due on the bridge in five minutes, and I shouldn't like to leave the service with a tarnished record."
Ross hoisted himself to his feet and handed me back the wire.
"I shall retire to my cabin and read Marcus Aurelius," he announced. "He is very consoling with regard to the favouritism and injustice of life."
As people go I don't think I am very easily upset, either by good luck or the reverse. Still, I must admit that, in spite of what I said to Ross, the totally unexpected news which Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton had been kind enough to forward me had certainly set my heart beating a little more briskly than usual. There is something peculiarly stimulating in the thought that one may have come into a fortune—especially to a second officer in the Merchant Service, whose capital consists of about seventy pounds in cash and a miscellaneous collection of shore-going clothes.
All through my watch, while we were creeping out of Leixoes harbour, and thrashing our way up the desolate coast of Spain, the pleasant possibilities of the situation kept turning themselves over in my mind. As I had told Ross earlier in the afternoon, I was sick of my present life—sick to death of it. Ever since the war I had been helping to trundle the Neptune backwards and forwards between London and Brazil, and any faint attraction the job might once have possessed had long since vanished into thin air. I had already practically made up my mind to chuck it at the first favourable opportunity, and now it looked as if Fate were suddenly offering me a chance such as I had never hoped for even in my wildest dreams. If this mysterious uncle of mine had really left me anything worth having I could start out on my fresh career with all the advantages of a leisurely and deliberate choice. What that choice would be I had not exactly determined. When one is twenty-six, and as fit as a fiddle, the world contains so many delightful openings, it is difficult to decide in a hurry which is the most congenial.
Even when I was back in my cabin and stretched out comfortably in my bunk, I still found my mind sufficiently busy to keep me wide awake. Another and highly interesting thought had suddenly dawned upon me, and that was that if Ross's predictions were in any way right, I should now be in a much more justifiable position to pursue my acquaintance with Miss de Roda.
Lying there in the dark, I seemed to see her face as plainly as if she were standing just in front of me. Those wonderful eyes and the soft curve of her lips stood out before me with a strange, bewitching vividness. Slowly and with a curious pleasure I went through again all our conversation during the drive down from Oporto. It had been simple enough on the surface—the mere exchange of ordinary cheerful commonplaces suitable to the situation—but once more I seemed to catch that faint, tantalising atmosphere of reserve and mystery which was none the less real for being so utterly intangible.
The more I thought it over the more certain I felt that in her own opinion there was some impenetrable barrier which cut her off from the possibility of making friends with anyone on board. Her uncle's wishes may have had something to do with it, but there seemed to me little doubt that she herself shared his views in the matter, and was fully determined to carry them out.
It was not exactly an encouraging conclusion, but I refused to let it depress me. Barriers, after all, are only made to be attacked, and on the whole I rather like a certain amount of opposition. It adds so enormously to the value of the prize after one has succeeded in getting one's own way.
I meditated upon this satisfactory truth a little longer, and at last with a feeling of drowsy contentment over the prospect of seeing and talking with her the next morning, I turned over comfortably on my side and dropped off to sleep.
It is not always that nature is so obliging as to harmonize with one's feelings, but from what I could see through the porthole when I woke up the next morning it appeared to me that the weather was thoroughly in keeping with my own good spirits. When I reached the deck I found no reason for changing my opinion. Under a sky of cloudless blue and through a sparkling, sunlit sea the Neptune was steadily churning her way northwards, leaving a broad white wake of foam stretching away half a mile behind her. Even the usually expressionless face of the first officer was wreathed in a satisfied smile as he paced slowly up and down the bridge.
By half-past seven one or two passengers had already made their appearance, but it was not until a few minutes after eight that I at last caught sight of Miss de Roda. She was standing by herself looking out over the stern railing, and the sudden thrill that ran through me when I recognised her showed me that my feelings must have been travelling at a very creditable pace during the last twenty-four hours.
There was not much time before breakfast, so, without any unnecessary delay, I at once made my way aft. She looked up as I approached, and the swift fear I felt that she might have repented making the appointment vanished immediately before the friendly smile with which she returned my greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Dryden," she said, "and if you've any consideration for my feelings, please don't tell me it's a beautiful day. I have heard that from three different people already."
I looked at her with deep contentment. She was wearing a plain linen frock that showed off the graceful lines of her figure, and altogether she was as fresh and delightful a picture as ever gladdened the eye of sinful man.
"I am sorry," I said regretfully. "I had made up one or two very bright remarks on the subject, but under the circumstances I'll keep them for somebody else." I paused. "How is Señor de Roda this morning?" I asked. "I hope he hasn't heard anything about our adventures in the harbour?"
She shook her head. "Not a word apparently. I am beginning to think that nobody saw us after all, except the sailor who spoke to you."
In a few words I acquainted her with what Ross had told me the previous evening—a piece of information which she received with obvious thankfulness.
"I have always liked Dr. Ross," she said. "He is so kind and cheery. Is he a special friend of yours?"
"We have been together for a dozen voyages," I explained, "and so far we have managed to get along without squabbling."
"A dozen voyages!" she repeated, opening her eyes. "You must be getting a little tired of the Neptune, aren't you?"
"She has lost some of her first charm," I admitted frankly. "I have been thinking of applying for a separation for some time."
She looked up at me with a friendly interest that I found very refreshing.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
"I don't know exactly," I replied. "It depends to a certain extent upon Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton."
There was a short pause.
"They sound like two very important people," she said, wrinkling her forehead, "but I am afraid I have never heard of either of them."
"Neither had I until I got back yesterday," I returned. "Then I found a cable from them in my cabin telling me that my uncle was dead."
She gave a little exclamation of sympathy. "Oh, I am so sorry," she began. "I'm afraid——"
"It's quite all right," I interrupted cheerfully. "I never saw him in my life, and I believe he was several kinds of a blackguard. The only reason they wired to me was because I happen to be the next of kin, and as he died without making a will I suppose I come into his goods and chattels—if there are any to come into."
"But don't you know? Didn't they give you any details?"
I shook my head. "Nothing at all. I may be a millionaire, or he may have left me a parrot and an old suit of clothes. I should think the latter was much the more likely of the two, but Ross won't have it at any price. He says that he has got a kind of second sight about money matters, and that he's always felt I was born to be one of the idle rich."
She laughed easily. "I do hope he's right. Aren't you tremendously excited about it?"
"I am trying not to be," I said. "You see, the more one expects the greater the disappointment."
"Who was your uncle?" she asked, after a moment's silence. "Another namesake of the poet?"
"He wasn't a Dryden at all," I explained. "He was my mother's brother, and his name was Richard Jannaway."
I had given my answer quite casually, but its effect was so startling that for a moment I stood there petrified with astonishment. Every vestige of colour had fled from my companion's face, and she was staring at me with an expression of incredulous horror.
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed involuntarily. "What is it? What's the matter?"
By a tremendous effort of will she managed to pull herself together.
"It's nothing," she answered, with amazing coolness. "I—I once knew somebody of that name, but it couldn't possibly have been the same person."
"I don't know," I said slowly; "there can't be very many Richard Jannaways in the world." Then I paused. "My uncle spent most of his life in South America," I added deliberately.
I saw her hand tighten on the railing that she was holding until the knuckles stood out white and distinct under the skin.
"South America?" she repeated in a low whisper.
The same panic-stricken look had come back into her face, as though the two words confirmed all the strange dread which the first mention of my uncle's name had suddenly aroused.
I came a step nearer to her. "For God's sake tell me what's the matter," I said again. "If there's anything in the world——"
I was interrupted by the noise of the breakfast gong, which came booming up from below in a loud, insistent clamour.
With another obvious effort my companion regained her self-control, and, letting go of the railing stood up in front of me, white and breathless.
"Mr. Dryden," she said, "please don't ask me any questions. There is something I can't explain to you now—something I can never explain. I can only assure you that what you have told me makes no real difference between us. It was always quite impossible that we could ever be friends."
"Nothing is impossible unless one admits it," I returned doggedly.
She made a little despairing gesture with her hands.
"You don't understand," she said; "and, please God, you never will."
For one moment we remained facing each other in a strained, unnatural silence; then, without another word, she turned away towards the companion, and disappeared down the steps into the saloon.
To say that I was utterly flabbergasted would be nothing but the literal truth. It had all happened so unexpectedly, and with such astounding abruptness, that for a second or so I felt like a man who had inadvertently dropped a lighted match into a large can of petrol. Indeed, no actual explosion could have reduced me to such a complete state of amazed bewilderment as that in which I stood staring at the spot where she had vanished.
Then, quite suddenly, my senses seemed to come back to me. I caught sight of several passengers advancing towards the companion, and, taking out my case, I lighted myself a cigarette, and strolled very slowly in the direction of the stern. At this hour the stretch of deck behind the donkey engine house was absolutely deserted. A better place for a little quiet meditation could scarcely have been found, and, leaning over the railing, I set about the process with as much steadiness as my disturbed faculties would permit.
One thing seemed absolutely certain. Whatever Miss de Roda's original views may have been as to the wisdom of continuing her friendship with me, it was her sudden discovery about my uncle which had been wholly responsible for the extraordinary change in her manner. If I had told her that I was the nephew of Judas Iscariot the result could hardly have been more striking. The mere mention of Richard Jannaway's name had been sufficient to fill her with such amazement and horror that she had been quite incapable of making any attempt at hiding her feelings.
This fact of itself would have been sufficiently remarkable, but to me its significance was doubly increased by the way she had behaved the previous day during our little discussion with the boatmen. Any girl who could have shown such perfect coolness under the circumstances must be gifted with a spirit and nerve that were not easily shaken. I was, therefore, convinced that it must have taken some very real and urgent sense of danger to upset so completely her usual self-control.
Having arrived at this point, I found myself utterly at sea. Beyond the fact that the mystery was in some way or other connected with my uncle I had practically nothing to go upon. If the family recollections of that distinguished gentleman could be trusted, he had probably thrown himself heartily into all kinds of mischief during the course of his South American career, and since the de Rodas came from that part of the world it was quite possible that the name of Richard Jannaway might be connected with some black, unwholesome memory which overshadowed both their lives.
Señor de Roda was just the sort of man who suggested a mysterious past. His obvious avoidance of any sort of society, and the brooding depression which always haunted his sallow face, were exactly in keeping with the idea. The more I thought it over the more probable it seemed that at some period in his life he had been mixed up with my disreputable relation, and I began to feel an acute desire for a little genuine information about the tatter's history.
The most likely people to be able to gratify this curiosity appeared to be Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton. However secretive their late client may have been, they would at least know more about him than I did, and such facts as they possessed might well be the starting-point for further discoveries.
There was no other chance of enlightenment that I could see except by renewing my interrupted conversation with Miss de Roda. This plan, difficult as it might be to put into practice, appealed to me on two grounds. In the first place, I was ready to jump at any suggestion which would bring me into further contact with her, and secondly, I felt perfectly certain that if she chose she could give me a good deal more interesting information than I was likely to get in Bedford Row.
The abrupt way she had left me was not exactly an encouraging omen, but it was possible that after she had recovered from her first agitation she might take a different view of the matter. Anyhow, I made up my mind that if an opportunity came along I would be ready enough to grasp it, and with this resolve I at last tossed away the burned-out stump of my cigarette, and went off to hunt up a belated and much-needed breakfast.
It is one thing to come to a sound decision, however, and quite another to get the chance of carrying it out. All the rest of that day, though I kept a particularly watchful eye upon every likely part of the deck, I never so much as caught a glimpse of the one figure that I was looking for. The remainder of the passengers promenaded up and down in the sunshine with maddening persistence, but Miss de Roda herself remained as obstinately invisible as though she had vanished from the ship.
At one time I almost made up my mind to send along a note to her cabin asking her to meet me. Second thoughts, however, soon led me to abandon the idea. She could be in no possible doubt about my feelings on the matter, and if she didn't choose to gratify them, any attempt to persuade her would be worse than futile. There was nothing to do but to put up with the situation as philosophically as I could, a course of action in which I was assisted by a natural and happy tendency not to worry unnecessarily about anything that cannot be helped.
Late in the day, after we had rounded Ushant and were making our way up Channel, the fine weather which had so far kept us company suddenly petered out. We ran into a grey, drizzling mist, which, although not thick enough to retard our speed to any great extent, was a most unpleasant change after the perfect conditions of the last twenty-four hours. Things got worse rather than improved as we drew nearer to the mouth of the Thames, and when we stopped to pick up our pilot off the Nore the rain was coming down with a pitiless energy that would have damped the ardour of the most enthusiastic patriot.
Under these depressing conditions we crept up the river and came to our berth off the docks. We were not due to make our entrance until eight o'clock the next morning, and it was with a feeling of thorough thankfulness for the fact that I went down to my cabin, and, throwing off my wet clothes, took the chance of a few hours' well-earned sleep.
It was still raining dismally when I turned out, but the short rest had restored me to my usual good spirits. While dressing, I determined that before going on deck I would write a brief line to Miss de Roda wishing her good-bye. I knew that, even if she were willing to see me, which was very unlikely, I should probably be much too busy for the next hour or so to attend to anything but my immediate duties. A second officer is never likely to run short of work while his ship is entering a harbour dock.
I therefore routed out a sheet of notepaper and an envelope, and, sitting down on my bunk, scribbled the few following words by the grey light which filtered in through the port-hole:
"DEAR MISS DE RODA,—As you will probably be leaving the ship before I get a chance of seeing you, I am sending you a line to say good-bye—for the present. I am not going to ask you any questions, as you don't want me to, but I should like you to know that there is nothing in the world which I should allow for a moment to stand in the way of my friendship with you. Whatever the difficulties are, I mean to find them out and put an end to them. Till then I shall have to content myself with thinking about you, as I can't see you; but please remember that always and any time, if I can be of the slightest service to you, you have only got to let me know. For the next few days I shall be staying on the ship; after that a letter addressed to the head office of the Planet Line in Cockspur Street will always reach me.
"Yours sincerely,
"JOHN DRYDEN."
In reading this through I felt that it was not altogether what I had wanted to say; but I am not much of a hand at letter-writing, and, anyhow, it was too late to start altering it. I put it in the envelope, and on my way along the corridor I gave it to one of the stewardesses, and asked her to hand it on privately to Miss de Roda. Then, having done all I could, I went up on deck and set about the task of earning my inadequate salary.
In a shroud of mist we crept in through the grey dock entrance, amidst the usual bustle and excitement which always accompanies the process of coming alongside. Passengers were already trooping up with their hand-bags and lining the rail nearest the shore, but I was much too occupied with my various duties to have any time to try and distinguish one from the other. Bit by bit we sidled slowly into our appointed berth, while a small crowd of people who had gathered on the dock under dripping umbrellas began to exchange cheerful greetings with their expectant friends on board.
At last the warps were made fast, and up the lowered gangways came the customary knot of port officials. Knowing that I should be wanted, I left my station in the bows, where everything was now secured, and started to come back aft. On my way I ran into Ross, who, hidden in a long mackintosh and smoking his new pipe, was watching the scene with his usual good-tempered indifference.
"Anything I can do for you ashore, Dryden?" he asked.
I stopped. "Are you landing at once?" I asked.
He nodded. "I've got to go up to the office with my papers. I shall be back in about half an hour."
I unbuttoned my coat and took out the cable from Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton.
"Well, if you can manage it," I said, "you might ring up these people and make an appointment for me. Any time after twelve will do."
He took the wire and stuffed it away in his pocket.
"Leave it to me, my lad," he said. "I'll see they have a red carpet down for you all right."
I passed on through the jostling crowd of passengers, and, going down below, proceeded to lend a hand in the various formalities which attend the arrival of an incoming vessel. This process must have occupied the best part of an hour, and by the time I was free Ross had got through his business and returned to the ship. I came across him at the entrance to the smoking-room, where he was squatting peacefully on an upturned cabin trunk.
"It's all right about your appointment," he observed. "Half past twelve's the time, and you can take it from me that you're on a red hot winner. They nearly fell down when I mentioned your name.
"You're a fine liar, Ross," I said sceptically, "but I'm much obliged to you all the same."
By eleven o'clock we had got everything cleared up, and, as my services were no longer required, I went down to my cabin to change into shore-going kit. On my way I met the stewardess to whom I had entrusted my note for Miss de Roda. In reply to my enquiry she informed me that it had been safely delivered, but that the "young lady" had left the ship without giving her any message or answer. This, however, was only what I had expected, so I was able to accept the news with becoming fortitude.
The rain was still falling heavily when I set foot on the dock, but a pleasant tingle of excitement over my approaching interview lifted me above the consideration of such trifles. I made my way to the nearest underground station, and established myself in the corner of a first-class smoker in company with an excellent cigar on which I had omitted to pay duty. I felt that on such a critical occasion a little extravagance was distinctly permissible.
On reaching the Temple I changed into a taxi, and instructed the driver to take me to the address which Messrs. Wilmot and Drayton had given me. It was a slow journey, for the Strand and Chancery Lane were both under repair, as usual, a state of affairs which necessitated frequent and abrupt stoppages. At last, however, we managed to worm a passage across Holborn, and a few minutes later we swung round the corner into the sedate and peaceful atmosphere of Bedford Row.
No. 117 was the last house in the street—a large, old-fashioned Georgian building, that seemed to breathe out a reassuring air of comfortable respectability. I threw away the stump of my cigar, and, getting out on to the pavement, handed the driver his fare. As I did so, or rather, as I turned towards the house, I suddenly caught sight of a man who was leaning up against the railings a few yards farther on. Under ordinary circumstances I don't suppose I should have given him a second glance, but there was something in his manner—some curious suggestion of a furtive interest in my movements—which at once attracted my attention. Not being handicapped by any natural shyness, I stopped where I was and had a good square look at him. He was not what you would call an attractive individual, and any faint claims to beauty he might once have possessed had been seriously marred by a broken nose, which even at that distance was distinctly visible.
As soon as he caught my eye he turned away with an air of badly assumed indifference, and sauntered off up the street. I watched him for a second or two, wondering whether I could have been mistaken, or whether he was really as interested in me as he seemed. I even had some momentary idea of going after him, and asking him what the devil he wanted, but since he made no attempt to stop or look back, I came to the conclusion that he was not worth bothering about. It seemed wildly improbable that a complete stranger could be hanging around there with a deliberate purpose of spying on me; and, anyhow, if I ever ran across him again I should certainly recognise him at once by his broken nose.
With this reflection I dismissed the incident from my mind, and, pushing open the door of No. 117, stepped forward into the hall.